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Just before the festive season, I encountered an remarkable situation. I feel it proved instructive. This took place at a get-together of a group of longtime companions, who are incidentally dentists, but it's not pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which turns out to be relevant.

A Strange Predicament

The location was a tavern doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was shared by the group. Nice food, good beverages and surprisingly amusing anecdotes about dentistry. Naturally, the time arrived for visits to the male facilities. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be away a considerable while. I didn’t dwell on the reason this was, but when it became me next, all became clear.

Upon turning the bend, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the gents' lavatory. Not a single person waiting for the female facilities, but a considerable queue for the men’s. What fresh hell was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this queue recognised.

A Taste of the Norm

For the avoidance of doubt, I neither court nor expect empathy from any lady here. I am fully conscious that, for females, being forced to wait to use a restroom is the norm. On countless occasions have I observed women waiting in a queue while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the hassle of standing in line to use a toilet, there’s a tinge of humiliation about standing there, awaiting something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly enlightening to get a taste of it myself, watching the opposite gender breeze through the entrance while I was forced to wait patiently in queue with my mates, fiddling at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Restroom Line Banter

There’s a entire style of dialogue here – toilet queue chitchat – of which men have scant experience. Women, I surmise, have developed skills to be fairly skilled at it, exchanging small talk and an engaging observation or two.

Regarding this I’ve asked some women of my acquaintance. The general agreement is that intra-queue dialogue is confined to the odd weary glance and the phrase: “Screw this, I’m going to use the male.” A associate told me it’s merely at the hand-washing stations subsequently that chat tends to break out.

If I was a female, I’d not spend a moment on either small talk or quiet. If I was compelled, over and over, to wait in a public line simply for the opportunity to empty my bladder, I’d express my fury like there was no tomorrow at the sheer inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern culture would be gender parity in toilet lining-up periods. I’m researching data on this.

Brotherly Banter in the Queue

During my time in my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat flowing about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and uttered something to the effect of: “So, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it boys?”

A fellow grinned, another looked blank, a other man looked sheepish. A further person gave a dismissive wave as if this was a further symptom of a failing society, political correctness etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. An individual emerged, zipping up. The group shuffled up a position. Two more men joined the end of it. I exhaled.

A Knowing Interaction

A female emerged out of the next-door restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was just fine for some. I smiled bashfully at her, attempting to communicate an understanding of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don’t look to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve endured this on a regular basis and only then I could give you the time.”

In reality, she never spoke that. She uttered a word. But I am convinced that’s what she was thinking. And I really would not fault her.